It's Been a Very Good Year

From the King of all Media

Season's Greetings to all you people whose lives are so goddamn empty that you have time to be curious about ours.

Excuse the form letter. I hate these fucking things, but the alternative might be getting a lot of phone calls from our "friends and loved ones," and that would be rough on Alison, because there's no fucking way would I talk to you people, so she would have to, and it would piss her off. I don't need the grief.

So, about the year. I finally hit the big four-oh! I was able to maintain an erection for 40 seconds before coming. Thank you, Jesus! I can retire my jersey with honor.

The girls are great. Ashley is getting so toilet-trained you almost have to pry her off the can. Debra's taking ballet and loves it, but I keep thinking she could get kidnapped by some fag dance instructor who hates my guts.

And Emily's going to be 12 soon. Already she talks about dating, which freaks me out. (What next—she'll want to listen to my show?) I can't handle that idea, her going out with boys. I'm just afraid that the first time some horny, filthyminded, wiseass, degenerate young scumbag shows up at the door, I'll blow his fucking head off. What's worse, he'll probably ask for my autograph!

My book is in paperback, and selling like young boys at a monastery. My TV show on the E! network is doing OK and the radio show continues to kick ass. I'm on 16 stations now. Of course, I'd be on 300 if it weren't for the vendetta against me by the FCC (Fucking Chickenshit Cunts). Actually, it's kind of reassuring to know that there are people whose minds are even smaller than my dick. (And whose dicks are probably dirtier than my mind.)

Basically, it was a typical year: I fucked my wife and had fun with my kids and made more fucking money than Barry fucking Bonds. I ran for governor until they asked me just how much more money. The fact is, Alison and I got into some incredibly fucking weird and sordid sexual activities, but that's part of our private life, and this isn't the place to go into it. I'm saving that shit for the show.

So that's about it. Now I have to get ready for my big second annual pay-per-view New Year's pageant, which once again will pound a stake the size of a telephone pole into Dick fucking Clark and his bullshit Rockin' New Year's Eve.

All I can say is, I hope you had a good year. Thanks for sticking with me, and keep listening. And don't tell my kids what I do for a living.

Have a merry fucking Christmas, and such a happy New Year you could shit.

Howard

Rush (Need I say more?)

To my countless devoted Dittoheads:

Greetings, from the man who rescued radio from liberal oblivion, immodest only because I, the epitome of morality and virtue, have so much to be immodest about, I, the man who is inexorably bringing about the Limbaugh Era, in which O.J. Clinton's Raw Deal will be but an unfortunate blip, tadalump, tadalump, tadalump!

As always, I spent the year fighting for reason, integrity and decency, thereby infuriating the far left and inviting ceaseless attacks by feminazis, environmental wackos, the rich and powerful liberal elite and their media pawns, and even the president and his Worst Lady.

As always, of course, I prevailed.

The left-wing press trumpeted the fact that my contract with the Florida Citrus Growers was not renewed, as if that were somehow significant. My friends, I read literally hundreds of reports and publications daily. I am on radio or television for almost four hours per day and I give more speeches than Colin Powell! I have no time for orange juice commercials. Moreover, I am on nearly 650 radio stations, my books have sold close to 7 million copies and my Limbaugh Letter has 450,000 subscribers. I dine on caviar and filet mignon and have never owned a pair of jeans. Do I sound like someone who needs orange juice commercials?

Again in 1994, I took no vacations (and let me tell you, friends, those "lecture cruises" are grueling and demanding labors of love and duty). I whiled away none of my precious time on hobbies, and had no social life to speak of. And why do I continue to make these personal sacrifices? To bring the truth to millions who are otherwise denied it! That is my calling and my obligation; that, my friends, is why I was blessed with talent on loan from God.

Still, I am only a man, and it is the natural order of things that man should have a mate (and that the mate should be a woman). Thus it was with great happiness that I took a wife—the lovely Marta Fitzgerald (who will, of course, take my name)—a woman of nonpareil charm, wit, intelligence and, it goes without saying, impeccable judgment.

As befitting the import of the event, the marriage was performed by my good friend Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, and attended by a virtual "dream team" of political leaders and luminaries. It was, beyond question (the matrimonial sideshows of various Clintons and Rodhams notwithstanding), the wedding of the year.

We met via Compuserve, and our love grew out of our respect for each other's intelligence, humor and values, out of our spiritual and intellectual affinity, and not, I am proud to say, out of some base physical attraction. (Not that physical attraction is lacking! Propriety precludes further elaboration, but let me just say that Marta, a former aerobics instructor, is a joyous reminder of the true and original meaning of the phrase "women's movement.")

In sum, my personal life is at last as successful, enviable and rewarding as my professional life. (And, as they say, "Third time's the charm.") I look forward this year to sharing my traditional holiday rituals: hanging effigies of Clintons and Kennedys by the chimney with care, lighting the yule log with a copy of Roe vs. Wade and having a Christmas tree in every room, just to drive the environmental cases up the wall!

Soon, I must undertake to decide who the 1996 GOP presidential nominee will be. But for now, I'm simply enjoying the holiday season, and dreaming of a Right Christmas for us all.

The saga continues, Rush

To all My Fans

Man, did this year go by fast! Time sure flies when you have to suit up and play every day. I guess you're all wondering, "Michael, what the heck's it going to be—baseball, or basketball, or what?" Hey, couldn't it be both?

I admit I didn't have all that great a year with the Barons. But my numbers aren't important so long as the team does well. Anyway, it gave me the chance to do something I've always wanted to do—see more of the country up close, from the highway. After years of Air (continued on page 176)a very good year(continued from page 141) Jordan, I kind of like Road Jordan.

And I traveled in style in a brandnew deluxe touring bus that I bought. It wasn't cheap, but hey, nothing's too good for my teammates, and it made it almost impossible for the club to cut me. Let's face it, all things considered, it was probably a lot cheaper than if I had spent the summer playing golf.

The best part was that baseball opened up a whole new world for me: a world of new places, new experiences, new challenges and new endorsements (bats and gloves are just the tip of the iceberg). And another thing—if the major-league players hold out next year, the White Sox will need all the name draws they can get, so who knows? Sure, it's a gamble, but life is a gamble. At least mine always seems to be.

Well, I have to do my Christmas shopping now, and I'm sure you do, too. Hope you get everything you want. And keep in mind that when it comes to your kids, no price is too high for the gift of quality footwear.

Happy Holidays!, Michael

Season's Greetings, and all that crap. Well, gee, here I am, getting ready for the holidays again—only this time without some jerk bugging me to lay off the baked stuff and sauces, for a change.

I don't know why I'm even writing this letter, seeing as how everybody from the Enquirer to Hard Copy has been basically giving the world a blow-by-blow description of my personal life all year. As if those sleazecakes had a clue. And like I'm supposed to give a shit what the lawn-chair morons who read and watch that junk think about me.

The truth is, it was a wonderful year. Probably my best ever! First of all, I had a lot of success with what I call my Dissolution Diet. Yeah, almost overnight I got rid of about 240 pounds of dead weight—hah! And since I've never had a last name I was really thrilled about, I decided to call myself just what I am: Roseanne, period.

Also, I got a new tattoo! A bowling ball. OK, maybe it's not very colorful, but it's great for covering up an old tattoo, like of a name I no longer want to see every time I wipe my butt. (Although it was pretty appropriately located, I must admit.)

I took a long trip to Europe, which is a neat place: The hotel rooms all have bidets, they don't get Entertainment Tonight and most of the locals don't understand much English, so they don't know when you're ragging on them. I saw about a million old buildings and museums.

I've been trying to acquire more culture. I didn't read as many great books as I wanted, but I really got into Hemingway—hah! (Hey, she kissed better than a certain no-talent parasite I wasted several years on.)

My show did great, as usual, no thanks to the various network back-stabbers, traitors on my staff, conspiracies against me, attacks by media toilet scum, and assorted wardrobe consultants who ought to be working for a goddamn carnival.

And, finally, I recently started going through hypnosis. It's a "hidden memory recall" kind of deal, and already, it turns out I was sexually molested by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir at the age of three. Even before that, I was actually born male and was surgically sex-changed by extraterrestrials. I'm really excited! I mean, it kind of explains a lot.

I guess that's about it. Anyway, I have to get going. I have to buy some gifts for my parents and sister, and the pet store's big sale on slugs ends today—hah!

Love, Roseanne

From the Chairman of the Board

Hey, cats, old blue eyes is still around, and I still have enough juice left to wish you all a swinging Christmas. As for me, they still write 'em, so I still sing 'em. Can't always remember 'em, but what do you want at 78?

I guess somebody stuffed the ballot box, because I got a Legend of Show Business Award this year. This year? Yeah, that's right. Got pretty misty over that introduction by Bono, too, I gotta tell you. A great guy. And the kid's got real talent! Why the hell did Cher ever leave him? Idiot broad.

Other than that, it was a very good year, as the lyric goes, and I did it my way, even though birds kept getting into the house. But it's like I was telling Sammy Cahn—and there's another story right there. Stories. Wow. Storyland, that was a wild scene. Dean can tell you, and—hey, where the hell's that kid with my drink?

Have a swinging Christmas. Did I already say that?

Francis Albert

Merr y Christmas, from the (brand-new) King house to yours!

I've never sent out a form letter like this before, but I never had so much news to tell, or so many friends and family to tell it to. You wouldn't believe all the new acquaintances I've met, and all the relatives I never even knew I had. I heard from over 800 second cousins alone. It seemed like half of them wanted me to be their partner in a liquor store. (I'm sorry I couldn't help you all out, but remember, I didn't win that punitive damages money and that hurt me even more than the beating.)

It has been a fine year in the King household. Santa came to my place early. Of course, I'm talking about the big news. I finally got justice! More important, I got $3.8 million, and that's almost a cool million after legal fees. You pay me that kind of money, you can kick my ass to Japan! I love L.A.

I did have a couple more little brushes with the law, but making bail would be no problem these days, and anyway, the police pretty much treat me like an expensive plate when they see who I am. Sometimes I like to run a stop sign just to get a little show of respect.

My health is improving, thank you all. I lost weight and went through rehab. Of course, as the lawyers told me, a costly relapse is always possible. But the headaches don't come so often now, which makes it easier to read the movie offers. (I can't make up my mind who should play me—LaVar Burton or Sinbad. I bet O.J. has the same problem.)

I've tried to be good to myself this year. I got a Ferrari (let's see the LAPD catch that in their chickenshit Camaros), a new home and a big savings account. Things are going so well, I don't much give a damn anymore whether we can all get along or not. I'm having a seriously merry Christmas. I hope you do too.

Glen (I'm sick of "Rodney") King

Holiday Greetings from Lyle & Erik!

We've received so many letters asking how we're doing, and wishing us well, and proposing marriage, we figured we'd better reply. After all, you can't have too many friends.

There haven't been any major (continued on page 184)a very good year(continued from page 176) changes in our lives this year. When you consider the alternatives, that is really good news. The year started joyously for us both. Our faith in human nature was justified in January, when we learned that as long as just one person (out of, say, 12) believes in you, it can make a difference in your life.

It was an emotional year for us, but thanks to our dear friends Leslie Abramson and Jill Lansing, we learned that showing one's emotions can be a good thing. It's OK for grown men to cry. It can be a truly liberating experience. At least, it worked for us. (In fact, we're crying right now.)

It was also a year of quiet contemplation. We discovered the pleasure and satisfaction that comes from leading the simple life. We've eliminated a lot of the silly material possessions that once cluttered our lives, such as cars, furniture and clothing. In these times of economic hardship and uncertainty, the most valuable thing you can have is security. And we certainly don't want for that.

Our 1994 was largely uneventful. Basically, we took it easy and caught up on our reading and aerobics. Our tans have faded a bit, but we still have our health, and even better, we have comprehensive medical care (including dental). And there were some high points for each of us. Erik learned that his dear friend Leslie would continue to be his dear friend. Lyle got to meet O.J. Simpson, a man we greatly admire and sympathize with. And we've both made a lot of great new pen pals in the NRA.

Of course, things weren't all rosy. We were rather disappointed by certain made-for-TV movies, and frankly, we feel that Rob Lowe and Keanu Reeves would have done a much better job of capturing our sensitivities and intense personal grief. (We're getting a little misty just thinking about it.)

Christmas won't be quite the same for us this year. Family gift-buying now takes almost no time at all. We won't be spending the holiday at home, for several reasons, one being that we sold the house. (Excuse us while we dab at our eyes.)

All in all, it's been an imperfect year, but like an imperfect defense, it could have turned out a lot worse, We look forward to 1995 with faith and optimism, and with the hope that, a year from now, our Christmas stockings will, like our juries, again be happily hung.

Lyle & Erik

From the Executive Suite of Marge Schott

Dearest friends:

What a year, what a year, what a year. My beloved Redlegs get into first place, and they have a strike. I didn't want this, of course, but I'm just one woman, caught in a macho showdown between two groups of pigheaded males. And the players are so spoiled, you can't even talk to them. (Frankly, I think this game has gotten just too "colorful," if you know what I mean.)

Still, business has been excellent, and everyone in the family seems to be healthy and doing well. Unfortunately, Schottsie 02 spent a lot of time at the vet this year. If it wasn't the mange, it was heartworm or hip dysplasia. I fear the time may be coming when I'll have to put my sweet doggie to sleep. I just hate the thought of that. Especially since who I'd like to put to sleep are all the reporters and liberal buttinskies who gripe about every little thing I say.

What the hell ever happened to free speech? It's not me, you know. The problem is all the homos, Jews and pinkos in the media who just can't stand to see a female speaking her mind. These people should be put in camps.

But enough chitchat. I just wanted to let you know that all is well with the Schotts, we think of you often, and we hope you have a very merry Christmas and happy New Year.

And remember: Jesus is the reason for the season.

Love, Marge

Daniel Rostenkowski

House Ways & Means Committee

To my many loyal and highly valued friends and supporters:

Yuletide Greetings!

It is with the warmest holiday wishes that I take a few moments (of my personal time) to put pen to paper (purchased with my own money) to bring you up to date on the Rostenkowski family. (As you see, we've trimmed our annual Rosty Review down to one page this year, and our mailing list is much smaller. Frankly, we find ourselves having to economize this Christmas, and we're particularly cutting back on anything involving postage.)

The wife and I did less socializing this year. The party circuit can wear you out, and I think we both grew tired of the same old gatherings, faces, small talk, snide comments, tactless questions and cheap jokes.

I fear that I'm starting to show my age. Working tirelessly with the president on health care, meeting with business leaders, serving my constituents' needs and fighting for tax reform to help the little guy, I increasingly found myself overwhelmed. I had no time for the little things: maintaining office records, paying office-supply bills, reviewing office hiring policies and documenting office expenses. So many details, so little time!

After serving my country for 40 years, selflessly and with no thought of personal gain, I realized I had sacrificed much of my personal life. It had gotten to the point where virtually everything I did was an official duty. Then there was the constant campaigning, leaving no time for private affairs. Why, do you know that nearly every penny I spent this year was for some legitimate campaign expense? Given all this I decided that for my and my family's well-being I simply had to cut back on political activities. To that end I relinquished my duties as Ways & Means chairman. I know I'll be missed, especially by my many devoted staff members, who often told me that working for me was like not working at all.

On the positive side, I now have more time to spend with my family, work on my golf game and pursue such long-neglected personal interests as constitutional law (especially the rules of discovery), foreign banking and prison reform.

Let me close on a happy note, by wishing you all the merriest of Christmases. (Please, no gifts to myself or my family this year! After all that you've given me, any further tokens of appreciation would be downright embarrassing. If you must make some gesture, may I suggest the Friends of Rostenkowski Fund, which helps underwrite a legal research project I am currently committed to.)

Let us all hope and pray that 1995 will bring peace on earth, and more reason and compassion to a world where you can slice off a husband's manhood and go free, but be given hard time for paper clips.

Your faithful servant, Rosty

The White House

My gosh, it's almost Christmas again. That means it's time for one of my favorite holiday tasks—sending out the Clinton clan newsletter to our many cherished friends, to family members and to those dear people in the media who have shown such concern for and interest in our personal, private lives. I hope this full disclosure will satisfy their curiosity, which we do so appreciate.

Between Bill's dedication and workload, my commitment to health care and what seems like countless petty legal matters, we've been busy as beavers. As proud as we are of all that we have done for our country this year (see accompanying list), we sometimes miss our life in Little Rock—a life that has become so distant, so hard to recall, so irrelevant. But time marches on. Let us join it.

We experienced our share of good and bad moments in 1994. We lost Bill's beloved mother, whom I think of and miss each day. But we won on the Brady bill. And the crime bill. And the budget. Bill's economic reforms helped millions of Americans financially, but too many hardworking people still struggle to get by, and we share their pain. We understand how hard it can be to balance the books. And explain the books. And remember where we put the books. And justify parts missing from the books.

The big news at the White House was, of course, our new chef. He has put the president on a diet, thank heaven. I worry about Bill's physical condition: his extra weight, his worsening eyesight, his cigar smoking, his chronic laryngitis, his allergies—not to mention the stress of reforming America's health-care system. The pressure on him has been tremendous, but despite it all, Bill remains steadfastly faithful to his goals. And that, certainly, is the true measure of fidelity and character.

Chelsea has entered those awkward teenage years. A late bloomer (like her mom), she hasn't begun dating yet—but then, this is Washington, not Arkansas. We still find time to go on shopping trips together, and what fun that is, passing on to her my own tips: "Look for quality," "Mind your budget" and "Buy low, sell high." She's doing well in school but does have trouble with math—a family trait, I fear. I just remind her that "it's always OK to ask for help."

Socks' status as White House cat seems to have gone to his head—he has become one pushy and aggressive feline. I admire those qualities, actually, but he plays so roughly that, regrettably, we had to have him declawed.

We took several delightful vacations—all of the working variety, I might add—and especially enjoyed the 50th anniversary of D Day. How moving it was to see old enmities finally put to rest. Indeed, Bill forged many new friendships with American veterans—a group he has long admired from afar—and I believe we made the point that one needn't fight in a war to appreciate one.

Our greatest satisfaction has been meeting our country's seemingly endless need for more jobs, more opportunity, more justice and more financial documents. To those in the loyal opposition who have criticized us for doing too little, we can only say, "Be patient. Once Bill has been reelected in 1996, we promise to give you our full, undivided and wholehearted attention."

But now I must end this note and get busy with holiday preparations: gift wrapping, tree trimming, cookie baking. (I must send a batch to Mr. Limbaugh, who obviously loves sweet treats.) Let me leave you with our heartfelt wishes for all the peace, joy and brotherhood that you truly deserve.

Hillary and Bill

"I was actually born male and was surgically sexchanged by extraterrestrials. I'm really excited!"